Chuck vs the Resistance
by Notorious JMG
Summary: Europe, World War II. The OSS, the French Resistance. A young film producer named Chuck, a member of the Resistance named Sarah and an SS Captain named Bryce. The fate of Europe hangs in the balance, and it may be that only one man can save the world. AU.
1. All Is Not As It Seems

_This story is in response to the World War II challenge on the _Chuck _forum here at FanFiction. We're always looking for more people to be crazy with, so please, come join us at the "TWoP Kicked Us Out, But We Still Love Chuck" forum!_

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* * *

__**Chuck vs. the Resistance**_** – A World War II Story**

**Chapter 1: "All Is Not As It Seems"**

CAST (in order of appearance):  
General Bill Donovan: Dennis Hopper  
Bryce Larkin: Matthew Bomer  
Richard Mauser: Michael Rooker  
Morgan Grimes: Joshua Gomez  
Chuck Bartowski: Zachary Levi  
Anna Wu: Julia Ling  
Major John Casey: Adam Baldwin  
Corrine "Carina" de Montgalliard: Mini Anden

* * *

**August 1941  
Department of War  
Washington, DC**

Wild Bill Donovan, director of the newly formed Office of Strategic Services – or, as his official government title read, "Coordinator of Information" – looked with a skeptical eye at the two new agents seated directly across from him. Mauser looked washed up – as well Donovan could imagine; after all Mauser had spent the last twenty years as an LAPD beat cop. Donovan could scarcely imagine why Herbert Yardley had recommended Mauser for the OSS, but there it was.

And then there was the other one. Larkin. He barely looked old enough to shave, let alone be an intelligence agent. Donovan remembered when he had been Larkin's age – he had been a wet-behind-the-ears Wall Street lawyer at the time, still two years from his first service in an organized militia.

That, of course, was all completely discounting the dossier that lay on Donovan's desk. The dossier was a file on one Charles Irving Bartowski, an associate producer at RKO Pictures who seemed to have a remarkable propensity for retaining subliminal imagery. Donovan had been tasked by President Roosevelt to see that Bartowski was recruited, and so Donovan was about to assign the odd couple before him to ensure that it occurred.

"There are some things to consider," Donovan explained. "Bartowski is a liberal Hollywood type, and so he might not be so inclined to join the fight. On top of that, he's something of a klutz, and seems to be obsessed with technology." Donovan snorted. Technology was the bane of his existence. Cryptography machines? Radar? This new M4 tank bullshit? For God's sake, just give him his Colt 1911 and a good, old-fashioned rifle, and he'd take care of the enemy but good.

"I'm sure we can persuade him, sir," Larkin replied. "I imagine he can see which way the wind is blowing, and we can convince him to do his part for America."

Donovan raised an eyebrow. "And just how do you plan to do that, Mr. Larkin?"

"Threaten his sister," Mauser grumbled. "Twist his arm a little bit. Good, old-fashioned coercion."

"Much as I would like to approve that, I'm afraid Secretary Stimson would crap his pants," Donovan grunted. "No, Bartowski has to come of his own free will."

Larkin and Mauser spent a further ten minutes in Donovan's office, discussing with him how exactly they would get this Bartowski to join their ranks. "Whatever it takes – within reason, gentlemen," Donovan told them in conclusion. "The orders on this come directly from FDR himself. We cannot afford to screw around."

"Yes, sir," the two men said in unison.

"Very good," Donovan said. "Dismissed."

Once the two men were out of Donovan's earshot, Mauser turned to Larkin. "So, what exactly are we going to do to this Bartowski?"

"It's simple," Larkin replied. "We'll drive him mad."

Mauser narrowed his eyes. "How exactly do you propose we do that?"

Larkin smiled in response. "Agent Mauser, believe me, Fulcrum command had this worked out long before General Donovan ever called us to his office."

Mauser wasn't entirely pleased with the cryptic response, but for whatever reason, Larkin was a far higher-ranking member of Fulcrum than he, and so the former LAPD officer let it go. "Are you going to let me in on the plan?"

"Absolutely," Larkin replied. "Follow me."

Mauser did as Larkin ordered, following him deep into the bowels of the Munitions Building. He grew puzzled when they passed through a door marked "RECORDS."

"If I may ask," Mauser said, "how exactly is anything in the Records Department going to drive this Bartowski fellow out of his mind?"

"You have to think creatively, Richard," Larkin said. Mauser bristled – he didn't like it when people he barely knew used his first name, let alone this officious little prick. "How do you mess with the mind of a man who remembers everything he sees?"

Mauser shrugged and shook his head. "I suppose you find some way to overload his brain."

Larkin turned around, a smile on his face. "Exactly." He then turned back and continued forward. "We need something that will overload Mr. Bartowski's brain, make it snap."

"How exactly do you plan to accomplish that?" Mauser had just about had enough.

Larkin stopped in front of a shelf containing a single film reel, which he picked up. "This," he replied with a smile.

Mauser rolled his eyes. "Alright, Larkin, what's the game here? A reel of film is going to drive Bartowski out of his mind?"

"Again, you're not thinking creatively," Larkin admonished him. "This reel of film contains 31,680 frames. Each frame has one piece of US intelligence stored on it."

Mauser raised an eyebrow. "And?"

"And, Bartowski is a producer in a movie studio," Larkin continued. "If he receives a reel of film, his first instinct will be to watch it. Now, can you imagine the effects of more than 30,000 frames of information being forced into the brain of somebody who remembers EVERYTHING HE SEES?"

And that's when the lightbulb went on in Mauser's head. "Of course," he breathed. "His brain will be overloaded, and he'll lose his mind!"

Now Mauser was nodding. "That's ingenious!" he exclaimed. "What brilliant madman came up with this idea?"

Larkin's smile turned slightly evil. "Well, the man who came up with it is certainly brilliant, but I wouldn't go so far as to call him mad," he said, a conspiratorial tone to his voice.

Mauser cocked his head. "Who was it?"

Larkin's words made Mauser's blood run cold. "Adolf Hitler."

Richard Mauser was stunned. "What do you mean, Hitler came up with it?" he replied. "What does Hilter have to do with Fulcrum?"

"Ah, Richard," Larkin replied. "How little you know. How little so many Fulcrum men know. But they can't know – if they knew that they were serving the Third Reich, they'd all depart!"

A sick feeling began to spread in Mauser's stomach. "Then why are you telling me all this?"

Larkin raised his right arm – and to Mauser's horror, a Walther P38 pistol was in his hand, aimed at Mauser. "Because I'm going to kill you."

"What?" Mauser gasped. "Why?!"

_Hauptmann_ Bryce von Larkin of the Waffen SS looked at Richard Mauser, a touch of pity on his face. "Orders from _der Führer._"

* * *

**RKO Studios  
Culver City, California**

"Cut!"

Chuck Bartowski groaned. This was getting out of hand. When he had agreed to work on Alfred Hitchcock's _Suspicion_, he hadn't expected Hitchcock to be a downright tyrant. But as it was, he had forced Cary Grant and Joan Fontaine to reshoot the same scene nine times now – and as far as Chuck was concerned, each and every take had been near perfect.

Fortunately, Hitchcock announced a ten minute break, and Bartowski made a beeline for his cottage. The first three years after he had graduated from Stanford with a film degree, he had had to share a cottage, but with his promotion to assistant producer nine months before, he had been allocated his own cottage – one which his childhood friend, Morgan Grimes, took full advantage of.

"Chuck!" Morgan exclaimed as Chuck entered the cottage. "A package came for you."

Chuck looked at Morgan, and then at the package on the table. It was flat and wide – a sure sign of a film reel. "You didn't open it, did you?"

Morgan shook his head. "I did not. I know the rules."

Chuck sighed. "Damn well better." He set the package on end, and then sliced it open. Sure enough, a film can was inside, along with a note. _Mr. Bartowski – think you'll find this to your liking_, the note said. It was unsigned, but this wasn't the first time Chuck had received a film reel with no signature.

He slid the can out of the box and opened it – and was surprised to discover that it was a double, 2,000 foot reel, as opposed to a standard reel. Now his curiosity was piqued.

Crossing to his desk, Chuck picked up the telephone and dialed zero. "Anna," he said a moment later, "is the screening room available?"

"_Yes, Mr. Bartowski_," he heard. "_Jeff and Lester are on projection duty right now – do you need them?_"

Chuck rolled his eyes. Jeff and Lester, the twin idiots of RKO Pictures. "That's a definite no," he replied. "This is going to be a private screening."

Morgan's face fell when he heard Chuck say the words "private screening". "Aw, Chuck," he complained as Chuck hung up the phone, "does this mean I don't get to see it either?"

Chuck looked at Morgan with a raised eyebrow. "Morgan," he replied, clapping his friend on the shoulder, "the last time I let you see a reel like this, the Los Angeles Times had a full synopsis of the first twenty minutes of _Citizen Kane_ two days later."

Morgan raised his hands. "That wasn't my fault, swear to God," he said. "How was I supposed to know that that girl at the Frolic Room worked for the Times?"

Chuck shrugged. "Sorry, Morgan," he said on his way out the door.

Five minutes later, Chuck entered the darkened screening room. He smiled as he walked in – he loved coming in here to watch film. It made the days of silent films with his older sister seem like an almost prehistoric memory.

Chuck loaded the reel onto the projector and sat down in the seat next to it. Reaching up, he flipped the switch to start the reel –

And was presented with a bizarre sequence of rapidly jumbled images. "What is this?" Chuck muttered in confusion. He reached up to turn the projector off –

But he found he couldn't move his hand. In fact, he couldn't move at all. He tried to look away, but couldn't move his head.

The images seemed to be getting closer. Chuck's eyes widened, and he began to hear his heartbeat in his head. "HELP!" he yelled – and then realized, no sound had come out, his lips hadn't moved.

_What the hell is this?!_ Chuck thought in despair. _Oh God, oh God, oh God –_

* * *

The two agents standing in front of Wild Bill Donovan were very, very different from the two the week before. Donovan snorted in disgust as he thought of those two – Mauser, found shot dead in the Records Room, next to a shelf missing the single most important US military intelligence asset. Larkin, completely disappeared. God only knew where – and nobody knew if he was a turncoat or if he was dead himself.

No, these two were trained professionals. John Casey was a major in the US Army, and had been one of the best trainers at the Army's sniper school until Donovan had co-opted him. Corinne de Montgalliard, who went by the nickname "Carina", had come to him from André Dewavrin's _Bureau Central de Renseignements et d'Action_, which at the moment was not doing much at all in an attempt to keep under the radar of the SS.

"A film reel was sent to this film producer, Charles Bartowski," Donovan explained to the two agents. "It contained all of the most important military intelligence secrets we have."

"You say he's a film producer," Carina said. "What if he viewed the reel?"

Donovan shrugged. "To answer that, you have to understand that Bartowski has a phenomenal capability to retain that which he sees," he replied. "With that in mind, there are two possibilities. One: his brain couldn't handle the information, and he went mad."

John Casey grunted. "And the other possibility?"

"This is just a theory," Donovan warned them. "However, one of the psychologists that works for us believes that Bartowski's mind may have been able to absorb all of the information on this film reel, and that he will be able to access certain frames based on certain stimuli."

Carina raised an eyebrow. "That's a pretty far-fetched theory, sir."

"Nonetheless," Donovan replied. "You need to find this Bartowski and get the reel back. If he hasn't viewed it, so much the better, but if he has…"

Casey smiled. "I think I know the answer to that, sir."

"No," Donovan warned him. "Do not kill him, Major Casey. If he's mad, he's mad, and he can go into a home. If, however, he can process the imagery, he just became an invaluable intelligence asset. We planned to recruit him anyway; this would just increase his worth."

Casey grumbled in displeasure. "Where is he?" Carina asked.

"Los Angeles," Donovan said. "He works for RKO Pictures."

"Los Angeles, huh?" Casey echoed. "Good. I've been feeling a little pasty lately."

* * *

_Author's note: the following were real people –  
__**General William "Wild Bill" Donovan**__ – director of the OSS, 1941-1945  
**Herbert Yardley** - director of MI-8, the US Army's intelligence service until 1929  
__**Secretary Henry Lewis Stimson**__ – US Secretary of War, 1940-1945  
__**André Dewavrin**__ – director of the French BCRA, 1940-1946  
And I'm sure you all know who Franklin Delano Roosevelt, Adolf Hitler, Alfred Hitchcock, Cary Grant, and Joan Fontaine were._


	2. What's In a Name

_**Chuck vs. the Resistance**_

**Chapter Two – "What's In a Name"**

CAST (in order of appearance):  
Cordell Hull – Harrison Ford  
Dianne Beckman – Bonita Fredericy  
Sarah Walker – Yvonne Strahovski  
Jan Burton – Gary Cole  
Michele Renault Burton – Holly Hunter  
Chuck Bartowski – Zachary Levi  
Morgan Grimes – Joshua Gomez  
Eleanor Bartowski – Sarah Lancaster  
Major John Casey - Adam Baldwin  
Carina de Montgalliard - Mini Anden

* * *

**August 1941  
Department of State  
Washington, DC**

Cordell Hull did not like the way things looked one bit. In fact, he was about ready to call it quits and let the woman sitting across from him take over.

Of course, if the Secretary of State of the United States quit while the rest of the world was at war, President Roosevelt would probably have Wild Bill Donovan's new group – what was he calling it? The OSS? – hunt him down and hang him by his balls.

And having the red-haired woman in his office didn't help matters. Dianne Beckman was the Assistant Undersecretary of State for Intelligence Affairs, and the very fact that her position existed was an affront to Secretary Hull and the State Department.

Twelve years earlier, Hull's predecessor, Henry Stimson, had shut down the US Army's MI-8, saying that intelligence organizations were not the way of "gentlemen". Of course, Stimson, now the Secretary of War, had a very different view on things these days, but Hull felt that intelligence gathering was best left to the military.

Nonetheless. Cordell Hull had an agent to place, and he would be damned if he wasn't going to get her in.

"Alright, Dianne," he said with a sigh, "tell me all about this agent of yours."

* * *

Genevieve Sara Burton was born in Leipzig, Germany, in October of 1914. She was the daughter of _Oberstleutnant_ Jan Burton of the _Reichsheer_, and Michele Renault, a young French woman who was a distant relative of the brothers Renault, who had founded France's first automobile company.

_Oberstleutnant_ Burton was severely injured in 1915 during fighting in the Artois region of France. Though he did not know it then, and likely never would, it was an eighteen year-old Canadian Army private by the name of John Casey who took the lucky shot that severed – and cauterized – Burton's left femoral artery before shattering the femur.

When doctors were unable to reconstruct Jan Burton's femur, he was confined to a wheelchair and forced to retire. Bitter and angry, he returned to his family's home in Leipzig and watched helplessly as the German government slowly but surely threw the war away. The final straw was when the government chose to sign a treaty with Russia following the 1917 Revolution, rather than marching into Moscow and crushing the Russians.

In 1920, Jan Burton scraped together what remained of his family's savings, took his wife and daughter, and moved to Vienna. Things did not get any better for him, though. From Vienna, Burton watched in horror as a disenfranchised young Austrian grew in popularity and gained power in his beloved Germany. Realizing very early on that the Austrian was likely completely insane, Burton began developing a plan to depart Europe for safer climates.

As Adolf Hitler's star was on its rise in the summer of 1929, Jan Burton packed up his family once again. The move was much longer this time – all the way to Albuquerque, New Mexico. The move was a calculated one – both Jan and Michele spoke English, and had insisted that their daughter learn it as well. Genevieve – or Genny, as they called her – was remarkably brilliant when it came to foreign languages, and had also learned Spanish while in grade school.

Genny Burton found it difficult to integrate into Albuquerque High School. Though she likely spoke better English and Spanish than any of the other students at the school, her German accent made her the subject of mockery. In anger, she swore to rid herself of her accent and to prove herself to the rest of the student body.

By the time her sophomore year began in the fall of 1930, Genny Burton was well on her way to doing just that. Over the summer, she had stopped going by Genny, and begun to go by her middle name – Sara. Trying to Americanize even more, she had chosen to add an "H" to the end of the name, thus becoming Sarah Burton. And though it pained her parents to see her trying to discard her heritage, Sarah Burton swore to also rid herself of her last name, as it served merely as a reminder of the person she was trying to no longer be.

In January of 1931, Sarah Burton tried out for and made Albuquerque High School's newly formed softball team, the Lady Bulldogs (or, as some of the more crass members of the student body referred to them, the BullBitches). She discovered that she had phenomenal hand-eye coordination, which gave her the ability to hit the ball nearly at will. Sarah Burton quickly became one batter that no pitcher in the state of New Mexico wanted to face.

And then, in March of 1932, fate would intervene. The softball team from Xavier College Preparatory School in Phoenix came to pay a call upon the Lady Bulldogs. Xavier, a private, well-funded Catholic school, was expected to wipe the field with the Lady Bulldogs. However, the course of the game was changed in the first inning, when Sarah Burton stepped up to bat, and the ball shortly thereafter departed the field.

Sarah gave her teammates a needed boost, and they proceeded to ensure that the Xavier Gators had a very, very long bus ride back to Phoenix. In an attempt to limit the damage, the next time Sarah came up to bat, the coach loudly instructed the pitcher to intentionally walk Sarah. "WALK 'ER!" he shouted, and then proceeded to do the same thing each time Sarah came to bat after that.

Well, Sarah's teammates thought that that would make an excellent nickname, and so it stuck – Walker. And when Sarah returned to Albuquerque High for her senior year in the fall of 1933, the name Genny Burton was a long-forgotten memory, since abandoned in favor of Sarah Walker.

Sarah Walker departed Albuquerque in 1933, bound for Tucson and the University of Arizona. She chose to study literature, and acquainted herself with a further four languages while there. Her proclivity for language attracted the attention of the State Department, and when Sarah graduated in 1937, she was approached by a State Department official named Dianne Beckman, who believed that Sarah Walker could make an excellent intelligence agent.

So it was in the summer of 1937 that Sarah Walker became the first undercover operative of the US State Department. She trained with elite members of the US Army and Navy. The drive to prove herself that she had developed in high school manifested itself even more during training, until she was able to outperform most of the highly-trained men she worked with.

Unfortunately, Cordell Hull decided that a woman could never work in the field, and so ordered Dianne Beckman to stick Sarah Walker in analysis. And analyze Sarah Walker did. She quickly became one of the best analysts at the State Department, but it chafed at her that with the training she had, Secretary Hull refused to let her do the job she had trained for.

And then, on May 10, 1940, Germany invaded France after two years of aggression against Europe. The United States, however, stubbornly refused to get involved, seemingly happy to let the rest of the world destroy itself. However, by the summer of 1941, it was widely acknowledged that America was probably going to find itself drawn into the war, and so the Departments of State and War began to very quietly make preparations for the inevitable.

One of the keys to these preparations was Sarah Walker, and so it was that on an August day in 1941, she found herself summoned to the office of Secretary of State Cordell Hull. As Sarah headed to see Secretary Hull, she couldn't help but think about what she might be headed for.

* * *

**RKO Pictures  
Culver City, California**

"Chuck?"

Chuck Bartowski's head pounded. He tried to open his eyes, but they felt like they were glued shut.

"Chuck?!"

Uh-oh. That was Ellie's voice. Forcing himself to lift his arms, Chuck raised his hands to his face and rubbed what felt like a pound of crust away from his eyes. Slowly, he cracked his eyelids open, letting in sunlight that felt like a hot poker directly to his brain.

Morgan and Ellie slowly appeared in Chuck's vision. His best friend and his older sister – well, he thought they looked concerned, but with as blurry as everything was, he couldn't tell for sure.

"Mornin'," Chuck croaked, trying to smile.

Ellie didn't seem amused. "Chuck, did you sleep here last night?"

"Uh… guess so."

"Dude, what was on that reel?" Morgan asked, a note of concern in his voice. "Did you burn it? What happened?"

That woke Chuck up. Forcing his eyes all the way open, he sat up. "What do you mean, 'did I burn it'?"

Morgan pointed at the projector. The reel-to-reel mechanism was a melted mess, the bulb cracked and burnt out. The film reel itself was nothing now but a pile of ashes.

"Looks like the film got too hot," Morgan suggested, picking up a frayed film end. "Did you fall asleep during the film?"

_Dammit, they're gonna kill me_, Chuck thought to himself, but didn't say anything. "I guess so," he replied.

"Well… Mr. Hitchcock asked me to let you know that you need to be on set at 9:30," Morgan said.

Chuck lifted his arm again, squinting at his watch. 8:15. More than enough time to take a shower. Struggling to his feet, Chuck headed for the door. "Morgan, I need you to get Jeff and Lester to replace this projector. I'm gonna head back to my cottage and get cleaned up."

"Do you have a change of clothes?" Ellie's voice pierced into Chuck's brain again.

Chuck froze. Did he? He thought about it for a moment, and then realized that no, he didn't. "Nope," he admitted sheepishly.

"Then it's a good thing I brought clothes for you," Ellie replied disgustedly. "They're in my car."

Fifteen minutes later, Chuck stood under a stream of hot water, letting it pour over him. The radio set on the bathroom counter was on, tuned to KFI, 640 AM. The news from Europe was not good – Germany was having its way with the continent, and from what Chuck could tell, Japan was pretty close to being able to do the same to a swath of countries from China to India to Australia.

"And that is why I make movies," Chuck muttered to himself. He knew that this was a time, more than any other, that the American people were going to need a distraction from the real world.

"And now, traffic," he heard from the radio. "Cahuenga Boulevard is jammed at Barham. Make sure to leave yourself extra time if you're heading through the Cahuenga Pass this morning –"

Suddenly Chuck's vision went berserk. A series of images flashed in front of his eyes – a map of France, a bunker on the grounds of the Universal Pictures studios in North Hollywood, a row of dead men on a sidewalk, a rifle, and a piece of German chocolate cake.

Chuck squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, trying to clear his vision. When he opened his eyes, he saw nothing in front of him but the wall. "What the hell was that?!"

He finished showering and dressed, and fortunately, no further images flashed. Trying to ignore his growing headache, he filled a coffee cup, and then headed out of his cottage, intending to make his way over toward the sound stage where _Suspicion_ was filming –

"Charles Bartowski?"

Chuck looked to his right as he exited his cottage, to see two people, both dressed in black. One was an older looking man – _definitely military_, Chuck thought immediately. The other was a younger, very attractive red-headed woman. "Yeah?"

"We need to talk to you."

Chuck laughed and shook his head. "I'm sorry guys, but I need to get on set. Alfred Hitchcock is a tyrant, and I would prefer to stay on his good side."

He turned and began walking away, but the man spoke again. "Mr. Bartowski, you received a film reel yesterday that contained a large number of images."

Chuck froze in his tracks, and then slowly turned around. "How the hell did you know that? Are you a spy?" Chuck's blood slowly began to boil. "Who are you with? Are you with Paramount? How many times do I have to tell you bastards that I'm NOT leaving RKO?!"

The man's eyebrow rose, and an amused smile appeared on the woman's face. "No, Mr. Bartowski, we're not with Paramount Pictures," she said, reaching into her purse. Withdrawing what looked distinctly like a police ID wallet, she tossed it to Chuck, who opened it.

_Corinne de Montgalliard_, it said. _Office of Strategic Services_. That was all the ID said. Chuck looked back up at the woman. "What the hell is this?"

"We're government agents, Mr. Bartowski," de Montgalliard said. "That film reel that you received was full of intelligence secrets. My name is Corinne de Montgalliard, but you can call me Carina. This is my partner, US Army Major John Casey."

Chuck nodded uncertainly. "Nice to meet you… I think?"

John Casey sighed. "Mr. Bartowski, have you had any unexplained and unexpected visions since viewing that film reel?"

Chuck cocked his head. "Actually, yeah," he replied. "Just about half an hour ago – the traffic report on 640 KFI set off a series of images – I had no idea what they meant."

Casey looked at Carina, who was growing a rather excited look on her face. "Mr. Bartowski," she said, "what this means might be beyond your wildest imagination."

* * *

**Department of State  
Washington, DC**

"Ms. Walker," Cordell Hull said, standing up and extending his hand. "A pleasure to meet you."

"The same, sir," Sarah replied. "I don't mean to be blunt, but may I ask what this is about?"

Hull looked at Sarah for a moment, and then smiled. "I think I like you," he said. "You don't want to screw around. You want to get right to business. If only international statesmen were more like you."

Sarah shrugged. "I'm one of a kind, sir."

"That you are," Hull replied. "That you are. So here's the deal. You were born in Germany. You're split heritage, German and French. You can speak German, French, English, or Spanish, and sound like a native."

"All true," Sarah said. "I can also speak Russian, Italian, Greek, and, believe it or not, Hebrew passably."

Hull smiled again. "You might be aware of some troubles in France," he said.

Sarah raised an eyebrow. "You mean the fact that it's under the thumb of Adolf Hitler?"

Secretary Hull shrugged. "That would be what I'm referring to."

"So what role do you have in mind for me?" Sarah asked, the wheels in her head beginning to turn.

"Sarah, we want to use you for the role you were trained for," Beckman said, speaking for the first time. "You will appear to resign from the State Department, and you will go undercover with the French Resistance. Secretary Hull has spoken quietly with General de Gaulle about getting you in there. From there, you will infiltrate a Nazi organization known only as Fulcrum. We believe that they will be a serious problem for us if we don't take care of them quickly."

Sarah's heart had begun to race. This mission was beyond her wildest dreams, and though she had a million questions, the first one she asked was, "What will my cover be, ma'am?"

Beckman smiled. "Ms. Walker, you have a cover built in," she replied. "You will be going to France as a half French, half German, wealthy young woman… by the name of Genevieve Burton."

* * *

_Author's note:_ _real people mentioned in this chapter include:_  
_**Cordell Hull**__ – Secretary of State from 1933-1944, to date the longest serving Secretary of State  
__**Charles de Gaulle**__ – Leader of the Free French Forces during World War II; President of France from 1944-1946 and 1959-1969_

_Sarah's father's name, Jan, is pronounced "yaan", and is the German form of John. One common nickname for John is Jack; thus, Jan Burton = Jack Burton._


	3. Queen and Country

_**Chuck vs. the Resistance**_**, Chapter 3: "Queen and Country"**

**CAST (in order of appearance):  
**Sarah Walker – Yvonne Strahovski  
Captain Jackson Carlyle – John Barrowman  
_Hauptsturmführer_ Bryce von Larkin – Matthew Bomer  
_Sturmbannführer _Bradley Weis – Andy Richter  
General Bill Donovan – Dennis Hopper  
Chuck Bartowski – Zachary Levi  
Major John Casey – Adam Baldwin  
_Reichsführer _Heinrich Himmler – David Cross

* * *

**September 1941  
Renfrew Airport, Glasgow, Scotland**

The BOAC Douglas DC-3 rattled around Sarah Walker as it descended toward Scotland. Coming down from 10,000 feet was a tricky proposition when the weather was bad.

The passenger next to Sarah – an older gentleman who looked like he had probably been through the first war – looked at her white-knuckle grip on the armrests with sympathy. "Ach, lass, imagine what this'd be like, comin' down into Croydon," he said. "More likely'n'not there'd be a Fokker or two on us before you even knew they were there."

That sentiment did not make Sarah feel particularly better, although the way the man's Scottish burr affected the pronunciation of "Fokker" did ever so slightly tickle her sense of humor. She still kept her white-knuckle grip on the armrests until the plane touched down.

When Sarah departed the aircraft, she had to strongly fight the urge to get down on her knees and kiss the ground. The multi-stop flight – Washington to Newfoundland to Reykjavik, Iceland, to Scotland – had taken more than twenty-four hours and had truly been one of the most godawful experiences of Sarah's relatively short life.

Nonetheless, she did not end up kissing the ground, because the storm that had made the landing so unfortunate was pouring on Glasgow like a Biblical deluge. With a BOAC porter struggling behind her with her suitcase, Sarah quickly made her way into the terminal building.

Upon entering, she quickly spotted a man in a Royal Navy uniform holding up a sign inscribed with, simply, "WALKER". Trying to shake off some of the water clinging to her coat, she crossed the terminal toward him. When she reached him, she didn't extend her hand, but said simply, "God save you kindly."

The man raised an eyebrow and looked down at her – and then, in the most American-sounding voice Sarah had ever heard, replied, "God save all here."

Sarah's eyes widened. "You're an American?!"

The man's face cracked into a grin. "Oh, I LOVE getting people that way," he responded. "I'll explain in a minute. The name's Bond. James Bond."

Sarah raised an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

His grin grew even wider. "Just kidding. There's a guy I went to Sandhurst with – his name's Fleming, thinks he's gonna be a spy novel writer someday. He's filled probably half a dozen composition books with stuff about this James Bond character of his." He lowered his voice and leaned in toward Sarah, his voice conspiratorial. "Personally, I think it's all crap."

He stood back up. "In reality, I'm Jackson Carlyle, Commander, Royal Navy." He put the emphasis on the second half of Carlyle. "You must be Agent Walker – but I must say, I wasn't expecting a drop-dead gorgeous woman."

Sarah couldn't help but smile herself. "Sarah Walker, US Department of State," she replied. "Well… not really. Technically I had to quit for this mission, but they're still paying me, so…"

Carlyle nodded. "So you're still one of theirs," he responded. "Makes sense to me. I still have a hard time not thinking of myself as part of the US Navy."

"Ahhh," Sarah said. "That explains a great deal."

"Yes and no," Carlyle replied as they began walking. "I actually am a British subject – I was born here in Glasgow, to two parents who are very much Scots. They just happened to move to the States when I was about six years old."

"Wisconsin or Iowa, or somewhere around there, if I'm catching the accent right," Sarah interjected.

Carlyle smiled. "Pretty close," he said. "Joliet, Illinois, actually – my dad took a job with the Holt Manufacturing Company about five years before the Great War broke out."

Sarah frowned. "Holt?"

"Caterpillar, now," Carlyle said. "So, yeah – I grew up in Illinois, went to University of Illinois, joined the Navy when I graduated in '25. They sent me to Sandhurst to learn how to be a kickass military officer, I made it to lieutenant commander, and then, about a year ago, me and some other guys who were British subjects by birth – Army, Navy, you name it – were asked if we would be willing to be 'loaned' to the Brits. I knew my dad would have my ass if I didn't – so here I am." His voice turned slightly bitter. "Thirty-eight years old, commanding a coastal installation."

"I take it you didn't always command a coastal installation?" Sarah asked gently.

Carlyle shook his head as they stepped out the door. He opened a large, black umbrella that was large enough for both of them. "A year ago, I was commanding an entire destroyer squadron," he replied. "My flagship was a brand new M-class destroyer, HMS _Marbury_. One day, we got jumped by a wolfpack of U-boats. Every other ship in my squadron managed to outflank the torpedoes launched, and in fact, we sank two of the Krauts. However, one sneaky bastard managed to put two torpedoes right up my tailpipe. Broke _Marbury_'s back. She sank, 170 of my 220 men were lost, and my right leg was shattered." He sighed, and as Sarah looked up at his face, she could see his eyes glistening. "It's only three months that I've been out of traction, and I've been told that I'm permanently on-shore."

They had reached Carlyle's car, a completely back Morris Eight with the Navy Jack painted on the door. "I'm sorry," Sarah said as Carlyle opened her door. "It has to be hard."

Carlyle shrugged and blinked his eyes. "Yeah," he replied, "but life goes on. Destiny had a more important mission in mind for me, I suppose."

He closed Sarah's door and walked around the car. "What would that mission be, exactly?" Sarah asked, as he got into the car.

The smile returned to Carlyle's face. "Well, Miss Walker, you're just gonna have to wait and find out."

* * *

**Schutzstaffel-Fulcrum Headquarters  
Dortmund, Germany**

"VON LARKIN!"

_Oh, crap_, Bryce thought with a sigh. He would recognize that voice anywhere.

He turned around to see the pink, fleshy, blonde _Sturmbannführer_ approaching him. "Major Weis!" Bryce said, forcing a fake smile on to his face. "So good to see you, sir!"

Bradley Weis narrowed his eyes and frowned. "HEIL HITLER!" he roared, saluting.

This time, the _Oh, for God's sake_ that passed through Bryce's mind did not translate to his face. That would mean disgrace and, most likely, death. Instead, he saluted Weis back, adding his own hearty, "Heil Hitler," in response.

Once that was done, Bryce expected the frown to dissipate from Weis' face. But it did not, instead growing deeper. "You royally screwed up in Washington, Captain von Larkin," Weis growled.

Bryce couldn't believe his ears. "I beg your pardon, sir?!" he asked in disbelief. "I did exactly as I was ordered – I infiltrated Donovan's organization, I dispatched that jackass Mauser, and I sent the Intersect reel to this Bartowski individual. He should be dead now, or at the very least, in an insane asylum."

Weis sighed. "Guess again, Captain," he replied. Handing Bryce a picture, he said, "This was taken at the front gate of RKO Studios – the morning AFTER Bartowski received that film reel."

Bryce looked at the picture – and froze. "Oh, hell," he whispered.

Weis gave him the look of death. "What?"

Bryce sighed. "That man with him – that's Major John Casey. He's Army, and part of the OSS."

"_Schisse_," Weis sighed, putting a hand to his face and rubbing his eyes. "So, it appears that not only did the plot to melt Bartowski's brain NOT work, but now he's in the company of William Donovan."

"Yeah," Bryce replied. "It sure would appear that way."

"You know that the _Reichsführer _is not going to be pleased by this turn of events," Weis said to Bryce.

Bryce's eyes widened. "This is going to Himmler?" he asked, a touch of terror in his voice. "Why is this going to Himmler?"

Weis frowned. "Because this is a matter of the utmost importance, von Larkin," he replied. "But it's not just going to the _Reichsführer._" For the first time since the conversation had begun, Weis smiled. "You're going to tell him yourself."

* * *

**Department of War  
Washington, DC**

"So you're Bartowski," Bill Donovan mused, looking at the young man sitting across from him. It was all he could do not to sneer.

This young idiot looked like he wouldn't have lasted a week in the trenches. He also looked like one of those prototypical Californians – his blue eyes, his curly hair, the stupid tanned skin. Couple that with the fact that he worked for RKO, and Donovan just about had him pegged for a Commie. Hell, for all Donovan knew, Bartowski was one of those limp-wristed –

"Yes, sir. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir," Bartowski replied, with a surprisingly confident voice. "I've followed your career with interest. In fact, sir," he continued, "your story was what inspired me to join the Army when I graduated from Stanford. I wanted to make films for the military." That's when his face fell. "Unfortunately, I tore up my knee so badly when I was in high school that they said there was no way."

Donovan raised an eyebrow. Maybe he had misjudged the young filmmaker. "I see," he replied. "So, I've had a bunch of doctors in here try to explain to me what the hell happened to you." He narrowed his eyes. "I think it's all bullshit. How's about you tell me what happened?"

Chuck sighed. "Well, sir, ten days ago, my assistant received a package containing a film reel. I thought that it was film from the Hitchcock film I'm working on, so I put it on a projector to view it. It turned out to be a reel with a separate picture in each frame. Major Casey here –" he indicated John Casey – "has since told me that each frame was, in fact, a separate intelligence document."

Chuck stopped for a moment. "Here's the unbelievable part," he said. "Based on certain stimuli, I can remember some of those documents, and my mind forms links between them, apparently generating intelligence analysis."

The look of amusement on Donovan's face was hardly disguised. "Quite a story, Mr. Bartowski," he said. "I'd be almost inclined to believe it if your name was H.P. Lovecraft, but it's not."

"Uh, sir," Casey interjected, "he's actually telling the truth. Agent de Montgalliard and I have tested him with a number of stimuli, and you'd be amazed at what he's come up with."

"Sure," Donovan replied sarcastically. "Major…" He stopped. "You know what, alright. Let's test Mr. Bartowski. I want to see what he can come up with."

Donovan opened a desk drawer and withdrew a piece of paper. Slapping it down on the desk, he looked at Chuck and said, "Do your worst, Mr. Bartowski."

But when he looked at Chuck, he was alarmed to see the young man's eyes rolled back in his head. "What the hell?!" he said in alarm. "Is he having a seizure or something?"

"No, sir," Casey replied. "That's just what happens when he flashes on something."

"'Flashes'?" Donovan asked.

Casey shrugged. "His term, not mine."

At that moment, Chuck came out of the flash with a gasp. "That's the M4 Sherman," he said breathlessly. "It's being developed by the War Department and Chrysler. It's supposed to be a replacement for the M3 Lee, which just went into service this month."

Donovan's jaw dropped. "Holy… shit…"

Casey smirked. It was all he could do to not say, "I told you so."

* * *

**SS Führungshauptamt  
Berlin, Germany**

_Hauptsturmführer_ Bryce von Larkin was more nervous than he had ever been before in his life. Walking through the corridors of the SS headquarters in Berlin, he was on his way to see the second most powerful man in Germany – Heinrich Himmler himself.

Bryce was really hoping to walk out of the building alive. Nonetheless, he wasn't counting on it.

He was made to wait for fifteen minutes in an anteroom outside the _Reichsführer_'s office, cap in hand, tapping his toe nervously. Finally, the secretary looked up and said, "The _Reichsführer_ will see you now."

Bryce didn't say anything, simply nodding and entering the office. Immediately upon entering, he froze, saluted Himmler, and bawled, "HEIL HITLER!"

Himmler looked up from the document on his desk, regarded Bryce with an appraising look, and replied simply, "Indeed."

Bryce's eyes widened in shock at Himmler's failure to return the salute. Himmler immediately realized what the issue was. "Oh, come now, Captain von Larkin," he said dryly. "Every second of every waking hour of my life is devoted to the service of the _Führer_. Do you truly think that a bellowing salute is necessary when discussing matters of the state?"

"With respect, _mein Reichsführer_," Bryce replied, annoyed at the tremor in his voice, "my career is apparently on shaky ground, and I do not wish to jeopardize my life as well."

"Is that so, Captain?" Himmler asked. "Well, sit, and let us discuss this matter."

Himmler's permission given, Bryce gratefully took a seat in front of the SS commander's desk. "Now," Himmler continued, "I understand that there was a bit of hitch in your mission to dispatch this Charles Bartowski."

Bryce sighed. "Yes, sir," he replied, "but the circumstances –"

"Were beyond your control," Himmler finished. "Understandably not your fault, as well. However, the fact is, Bartowski has now been recruited by that bastard Donovan, and we believe he is being placed in a covert operations unit."

Bryce shook his head. "That is definitely not good, sir."

"And the understatement of the century comes to light," Himmler replied, a hint of humor in his voice. "That is why you will be controlling a Fulcrum agent who will be penetrating the unit and attempting to compromise Mr. Bartowski."

Bryce's eyebrows shot upwards. He was being given THAT important an assignment. "Uh, yes sir," he replied. "What's his name? The agent, I mean?"

"HER name," Himmler corrected him, "is Gillian Rodebrecht. She is a doctor, a biochemist from Hamburg who has shown a distinct proclivity for, shall we say, the art of seduction." Himmler's face cracked into a smile. "She also has a gift for disappearing into another culture."

"So," Bryce continued Himmler's thought, "she becomes an American… seduces Bartowski…"

"And figures out what he's doing, and in the end, most likely kills him," Himmler finished. "And she reports back to you."

Heinrich Himmler reached into a desk drawer and handed a folder to Bryce. "Study her well," he said. "By the end of the day, I want you to know the American Jill Roberts well enough to recite her dossier in your sleep."

"Yes, sir!" Bryce replied, standing to his feet, amazed at this turn of events. "Heil Hitler!"

This time, Himmler rose and saluted back. "Heil Hitler!"

* * *

_Author's note: real people mentioned in this chapter include:  
General Donovan  
__**Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler**__ – Commander of the Schutzstaffel, one of the most powerful and destructive elements of the Third Reich._


	4. Aberdeen Station

_**Chuck vs. the Resistance, **_**Chapter 4: "Aberdeen Station"**

**CAST (in order of appearance):**  
Captain Jackson Carlyle: John Barrowman  
Sarah Walker: Yvonne Strahovski  
CPO Angus Muldoon: David Tennant  
Chuck Bartowski: Zachary Levi  
Major John Casey: Adam Baldwin  
Carina de Montgalliard: Mini Anden  
Agent Langston Graham: Tony Todd  
Dr. Jill Roberts: Jordana Brewster  
Major Rick Lorenz: Michael Biehn  
Captain Mike Tweedum: Jason Bateman

* * *

**September 1941  
Aberdeen, Scotland**

Captain Jackson Carlyle hummed tunelessly as he drove along the Aberdeen shoreline. The engine of his Morris Eight purred as the car streaked down Greyhope Road.

Sarah Walker had found Captain Carlyle to be remarkably coy as to their destination. Whenver she asked him where they were going, he would just smile and say, "You'll see," or something to that effect. It was really starting to be very irritating.

For the last ten minutes or so, they had been driving along what appeared to be a golf course. Sarah found it unlikely that that was where they were going, but given the fact that the horizon was rapidly filling with blue water, she had resigned herself to the fact that Captain Carlyle was jerking her around.

Until, that is, she saw a Supermarine Spitfire orbit around the car, and head toward an unseen runway at the end of the point. "Are we going to wherever that Spitfire is landing?" she asked, curiosity getting the best of her.

"Indeed, indeed we are," Carlyle replied with a grin. "We're almost there, so I'll just go ahead and tell you – we're going to a not-so-top secret installation known as Aberdeen Point. It's on the land of the Nigg Bay Golf Club, and we have all sorts of fun toys besides that Spitfire there."

"Really?" Sarah asked. "Such as…"

Carlyle's grin got even bigger. "Such as equipment that allows us to forge identification paperwork, enough weaponry to occupy Scotland, a new medium-range bomber that the Americans are sending us…"

Then he turned and looked directly at Sarah, his grin becoming devilish. "And one captured German U-Boat."

Sarah's face took on a look of disbelief, and she laughed. "That's impossible!" she exclaimed. "Nobody's captured a U-Boat!"

"Oh, REALLY," Carlyle shot back, raising an eyebrow. "Give me ten minutes, and I'll prove you dead wrong."

Five minutes later, Carlyle pulled off the road and parked next to a squat Quonset hut. He got out of the Morris and marched inside the hut, Sarah right behind him.

"Afternoon, Cap'n!" A man wearing a Royal Navy chief petty officer's uniform sprang to his feet, saluting Carlyle as he walked in the door.

"At ease, Muldoon," Carlyle replied, tossing a salute back in the CPO's direction. "How are conditions for a surface today?"

"Ach, they're beautiful!" Muldoon said with a grin. "Thick clouds, and no Krauts darin' to make themselves seen today!"

The devilish grin returned to Carlyle's face. "Radio 'em," he said. "Have 'em come on up."

Then he turned to Sarah. "Chief Muldoon, this is Sarah Walker, US Department of State," he said. "Sarah, this is Chief Petty Officer Angus Muldoon. He's a good man – but don't ever play golf with him."

Muldoon spread his hands in protest, a look of feigned innocence on his face. "But Cap'n, I swear, the gulls take my ball every time it lands in a sand trap!"

"Right," Carlyle shot back. "And you're a direct descendant of William Wallace."

"Aye, and don't you be forgettin' it, sir!"

Carlyle rolled his eyes and walked back outside. "He seems to be quite a character," Sarah said, a small smile on her face.

"Yeah, that's Chief Muldoon for you," Carlyle replied. "World's most creative man when it comes to the unimportant stuff – but a good man in a storm. He was on _Marbury_ with me, and the Royal Navy decided to stick him with shore duty as well."

As Carlyle had been speaking, they had crossed the road and were approaching what appeared to be a crumbling wooden dock. However, when Carlyle reached the end of the dock and began walking out along it, Sarah realized it wasn't actually crumbling – it was just built to look like it was.

Her curiosity piqued, Sarah followed Carlyle. As she neared the end of the dock, the surface of the water began to bubble –

And a moment later, submarine sail pierced the water, to be followed a moment later by the distinctive rakish nose of a German U-Boat breaching. Sarah's eyes went wide. "I don't believe it," she whispered.

"U-110," Carlyle said. "Captured her on May 9th of this year by his Majesty's ships _Broadway_ and _Bulldog_. We got all the secrets we could off of her, and the following day, made it appear that she sank."

"Which she obviously didn't," Sarah replied.

"Obviously not," Carlyle said, an amused look on his face. "No, we did that to make the men onboard those two ships think she was well and truly dead, just in case one or more of them should be a traitorous bastard."

Sarah shook her head. "Why haven't I heard anything about this?"

"Well, it's simple, really," Carlyle replied. "You're actually the first American to know anything about this. President Roosevelt doesn't even know."

"What?!" Sarah looked at Carlyle in shock. "What do you mean, the President doesn't know?"

Carlyle shrugged. "The PM just hasn't seen fit to tell him," he said. "And no offense, but the State Department is less discreet than a cheap whore."

"Ach, that's the bloody truth!"

Sarah whirled to find that Angus Muldoon had joined them on the dock. "Quite a sight, ain't she?" he asked with a toothy grin.

In spite of herself, Sarah found her head nodding. "That she is," she replied as the U-Boat sank below the water's surface once more. "That she is."

* * *

**Patuxent River, Maryland**

Chuck Bartowski found that he was having a very difficult time staying awake. General Donovan and his OSS staff had spent the morning drilling him repeatedly on various items that had been on the film reel – which Chuck had heard them refer to a few times as the "Intersect" reel.

At the end of it all, they had come away convinced that Chuck really was a very valuable intelligence asset. Now, he, Major Casey, and Agent de Montgalliard were being driven to Patuxent River, Maryland, where General Donovan had informed them that transport would be waiting for them.

"We should be arriving in about ten minutes," their driver informed them. The driver himself was an older agent who walked with a limp, a man named Langston Graham. He was apparently General Donovan's right-hand man, and the fact that Donovan had assigned him to drive Chuck, Casey, and Carina to Patuxent River bore witness to the sudden value that Chuck had accrued.

Chuck breathed a sigh of relief. He couldn't wait to get onboard whatever air transport they were taking, strap in, and fall asleep. Unlike Casey and Carina – both of whom appeared to be nervous about the prospect of a trans-Atlantic flight – Chuck, as a Hollywood studio employee, had accumulated quite a few air miles over the previous four years. Granted, most of those miles had involved flying between Los Angeles and Flagstaff, Arizona, to do location checks for westerns, but nonetheless – he was certainly used to flying.

Ten minutes later, the 1939 Mercury sedan that they rode in turned off of the road and passed through a gate, onto Naval Air Station Patuxent River. The station was clearly brand new, and in fact, appeared to not be quite finished yet.

But that wasn't what caught Chuck's attention. As he looked down the flight line, he saw two aircraft, gleaming in the sun, a huge propeller on each wing. He stared at them curiously –

_an op order from the US Army  
aircraft components on the floor of a factory  
a portrait of legendary General Billy Mitchell  
the North American aircraft logo  
a picture of actress Carole Lombard_

Chuck shook his head and frowned as the flash ended. That last image certainly hadn't seemed appropriate to the information he had seen –

Or, at least, it didn't until the sedan rounded the nose of the closer aircraft, and he saw none other than Carole Lombard painted on its nose. "Wow," Chuck whispered. "These are brand new North American B-25 Mitchells."

John Casey's eyes widened as he turned to Chuck. "They're WHAT?!"

"No joke," Chuck replied. "Just off the production line in California."

A grin slowly spread across Casey's face. "Oh, this is fantastic," he whispered, beginning to look like a small child in a toy store.

Chuck started to say something, but cut himself off as the sedan rolled to a stop. Standing next to the B-25 with Carole Lombard on the nose was a striking young woman with dark hair and glasses. She was wearing the uniform of a US Navy auxiliary medic, and she looked pissed off.

"It's about time!" she shouted angrily as Chuck got out of the car.

Chuck shook his head. "I'm sorry," he replied. "About time for what?"

The woman narrowed her eyes, and Chuck swore he could see steam coming from her ears. "I was told to be here three hours ago, that's what!" she shot back. "And you all are JUST now getting here?"

John Casey and Carina de Montgalliard had gotten out of the car, and were looking on with amused interest. "I apologize," Chuck said. "But, seriously, I'm just a civilian – I go where they tell me."

The woman snorted. "Well, that makes two of us," she replied. Closing the distance between herself and Chuck, she stuck out a hand. "Dr. Jill Roberts, US Navy medical auxiliary. I got a call in the middle of the night to go off on some cockamamie mission to God-knows-where. They told me to come to Pax River, find the 'shiny new airplanes', and stay put." Her eyes narrowed again. "I swear to God, if I ever meet that condescending son of a bitch I talked to on the phone, I'm gonna reach down and rip off his –"

"Alright then!" Chuck said, cutting her off. "Um, yeah, I think I need to never make you angry."

With that, she actually smiled. "Probably a good idea, Mr. –"

"Bartowski," Chuck replied. "Chuck Bartowski."

Dr. Roberts cocked her head and raised an eyebrow. "Chuck Bartowski," she mused. "I know that name for some reason…"

"Really?" Chuck asked in surprise. "I mean, I work for RKO, but I'm just an associate producer…"

Dr. Roberts got a curious look on her face. "What films have you worked on?"

"Well, I've only got credit on one so far," Chuck replied. "I worked on _Citizen Kane_."

"That was probably it," Dr. Roberts said with a shrug. Then she looked back to Chuck. "What was it like to work with Orson Welles?"

Chuck laughed. "He's a control freak," he said. "Anything goes wrong, he goes through the roof."

Five minutes later, a second government sedan came rolling down the flightline. It came to a stop next to the B-25s, and two men in flight suits got out. "Y'all from the OSS?" the older looking one asked.

"Something like that," John Casey replied, looking uneasy at having the fledgling agency's name even spoken aloud.

"Fantastic," the man replied. "I'm Major Rick Lorenz, this is Captain Mike Tweedum. We've been assigned to pilot you and this bird over to an undisclosed location."

Casey frowned. "What do you mean, an undisclosed location?"

"Simple as what it sounds," Major Lorenz shot back. "We fly from here to Newfoundland, refuel in St. John's, then take off again. Once we're airborne, they'll radio us the location we're headed for."

"Brilliant," Casey grumbled, sounding unconvinced.

John Casey quieted down after the plane had been in the air for a while. Since it was a bomber instead of a transport, it hadn't exactly been designed for cabin comfort. As a result, the interior of the aircraft was noisy and cold.

After flying for the next thirteen hours, through the remainder of the day and well into the night, the B-25 was still three hours from its destination – a location that Captain Tweedum had informed them was a classified naval station just outside of Aberdeen, Scotland. As the sun rose on the eastern horizon, Chuck Bartowski stared blankly at the bombardier's console in front of him.

He understood the speedometer and the altimeter – those were simple to read. But there were a host of other gauges on the console that meant little to nothing to him.

"You look lost," he heard an amused female voice say from behind him.

Chuck turned to see Dr. Roberts standing behind him. "Dr. Roberts," he greeted her, unbuckling himself and standing.

"Jill," she said. "Please."

"Alright, then," he replied. "Jill. Good morning?"

She smiled. "Something like that," she said. "Although I do feel somewhat out of sorts. I guess my body just didn't expect the sun to rise for another several hours or something."

"I certainly agree with that," Chuck said, as Jill sat at the vacant navigator's station.

"So, Chuck… may I call you Chuck?"

Chuck grinned. "Well, if I can call you Jill… fair's fair."

"Alright, Chuck," Jill replied, her smile getting a little bigger. "So, just out of curiosity, how does an RKO assistant producer end up working with the OSS?"

* * *

Two and a half hours later, the B-25 had come around the northern tip of Scotland, and was preparing to descend into Aberdeen. The skies were mostly clear, but rising warmth from the British Isles below buffeted the aircraft as it dropped toward Aberdeen.

Rick Lorenz had just received clearance to land from Aberdeen when he noticed something odd on the horizon. "Hey, Mike, you see that?"

Mike Tweedum squinted toward the horizon, and then his eyes widened. "Rick… are those 109's?"

Lorenz looked again. "Yeah, Mike, I think they are."

Tweedum turned around toward the crew. "Alright, everybody, sit tight! We got Messerschmitts comin' in – this could get hairy for a minute or two!"

Faces went white throughout the aircraft as harnesses were tightened. Lorenz pulled the Mitchell to the right and dove – and no sooner had he done so when one of the German Bf.109 fighter planes dove with him, opening fire with its twin thirteen millimeter machine guns.

"Shit, shit, shit!" Lorenz yelped, juking the aircraft back around to the left. The maneuver made the lead Bf.109 pull up and away, while the trailing one peeled off to the left to avoid broadsiding the brand new B-25.

A moment later, though, the lead 109 returned – and this time, a few machine gun shells impacted the fuselage of the Mitchell. The thuds echoed through the B-25 for a moment, and then disappeared.

"MAJOR CASEY!" Lorenz shouted.

"YEAH!"

"GET ON THAT TURRET GUN!" Rick Lorenz commanded. "SEE IF YOU AN SCARE 'EM OFF!"

"ROGER THAT!" John Casey shouted back. Unbuckling himself, he moved as quickly as he could into the gunner's turret, and strapped himself back in. As the trailing 109 came in for its own pass, Casey opened fire with the Mitchell's .50 caliber machine gun. The pilot of the 109, startled by the unexpected stream of lead in the air, pulled his fighter up and away from the bomber.

The lead fighter rejoined with his wingman, and the two fighters roared back over the bomber one last time, rocking it with their turbulence as they blew past. However, they shot off into the morning sky, and did not return.

"Thank God," Lorenz muttered, releasing his breath.

Casey clambered down out of the turret. "Hey, Bartowski, how you feelin'?" he asked as he strapped himself back in.

Chuck frowned and turned toward the Army officer. "Aside from being scared to death, fine," he replied. "Why?"

Casey shrugged. "Eh, no big deal," he said. "Just looks like you got hit there."

Chuck's eyes widened. "WHAT?!"

"I don't know if I'd call it a hit," Carina said, a mischievous smile on her face. "Looks like he just got nicked a little bit to me."

Chuck started looking frantically at his body, trying to find –

The bloody patch of skin exposed on his upper right arm?!

Chuck's eyes rolled back in his head, and the whole world went black –

And when he re-opened his eyes, he realized that the plane had stopped moving and was quiet. Jill Roberts knelt on the deck next to him, tending to his arm, while Casey and Carina looked down on him with grins that stopped just short of glee.

That's when the angel appeared.

She stepped into Chuck's field of vision, cascading blonde hair framing her alabaster face, a pair of cobalt blue eyes piercing forth. An amused though sympathetic expression graced her features.

"Are you Chuck Bartowski?" she asked, her voice making Chuck almost certain that he was dead and she was, in fact, an angel.

"Yesss…"

She smiled. "I'm Sarah Walker, Department of State," she said. "Welcome to Scotland."


	5. Meet 'n' Greet

_**Chuck vs. the Resistance**_**, Chapter 5: "Meet 'n' Greet"**

**CAST (in order of appearance):  
**Chuck Bartowski – Zachary Levi  
Dr. Jill Roberts – Jordana Brewster  
CPO Angus Muldoon – David Tennant  
Lieutenant Cole Barker – Jonathan Cake  
Captain Jackson Carlyle – John Barrowman  
Major John Casey – Adam Baldwin  
Sarah Walker – Yvonne Strahovski

* * *

_**Author's note:**__ A brief recap, since it's been nine and a half months since I last updated this bad boy:  
Chuck Bartowski – RKO film producer, received the Intersect in the form of a film reel.  
Sarah Walker – born Genevieve Burton, French/German mix, undercover operative for the US State Department.  
Major John Casey – US Army intelligence operative with the Office of Strategic Services (forerunner to the CIA and NSA).  
Corinne "Carina" de Montgalliard – French intelligence operative; John Casey's partner with the OSS.  
Hauptmann Bryce von Larkin – liaison between Fulcrum and the Waffen SS.  
Dr. Jill Roberts – born Gillian Rodebrecht; SS agent working undercover at Aberdeen Station.  
Captain Jackson Carlyle – Royal Navy commander of Aberdeen Station.  
CPO Angus Muldoon – Captain Carylye's aide-de-camp.  
Major Rick Lorenz – US Army Air Corps pilot assigned to Aberdeen Station.  
Captain Mike Tweedum – US Army Air Corps pilot assigned to Aberdeen Station._

* * *

**September 1941  
Aberdeen, Scotland**

Chuck Bartowski was bored. He was currently in his quarters, under strict orders not to move his right arm too much (fortuitously enough, he was left-handed), and not to move too much. Despite just being a minor flesh wound, the piece of shrapnel that had cut open his arm had caused a surprisingly disproportionate amount of blood loss.

And so, while Ms. Walker from the State Department was out with Captain Carlyle, showing Major Casey and Agent de Montgalliard around the base, Chuck was stuck in his assigned quarters. Oh well, they were nice – surprisingly enough, nicer than his cottage at RKO.

At that particular moment, Chuck was doodling, as he usually did when he got bored. His doodles were always far-fetched technological inventions that were utter flights of fantasy. The first one he had drawn had been when he was in first grade – an airplane that could fly in outer space.

His teacher had ended up speaking to his parents about his lack of attentiveness in class. Chuck's mother was disappointed, but his father had made sure to let Chuck know that it was "Aces."

The doodle on the page in front of Chuck just then was something that he wasn't even entirely sure how it would work. He just knew that it was one hell of a concept – and the model of it looked cool to him.

A knock on Chuck's door brought him back to the present. "It's open!" he called.

The door swung open, to reveal Dr. Jill Roberts standing there. "Dr. Roberts!" Chuck exclaimed, standing. "What brings you down here?"

She smiled and shook her head. "It's Jill, Chuck, remember?"

Chuck sighed. "I know," he replied. "It's just, my parents raised me not to address a woman I don't know by her first name. It's a difficult habit to break."

Jill's smile got a little bigger. "I'm sure it is," she said. "As to what brings me down here, I grew bored of Captain Carlyle pointing out every single defensive position on the coast, so I thought I'd come see how you're doing."

"I'm fine," Chuck answered. "My arm's fine. I shouldn't be stuck in here."

"And I disagree," Jill retorted. "Now, which one of us has a medical degree again?"

Chuck grinned. "Touché." Then he turned and indicated the chair at his desk. "Would you care to come in, take a seat?"

Jill raised an eyebrow in amusement. "Your sensibilities aren't going to be offended by having a woman in your quarters, unsupervised."

"Very funny," Chuck shot back, his grin growing wider. "I'm a Hollywood producer, remember? There have been… well. A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell."

"Oh, right," Jill scoffed, moving past him toward the chair at his desk. "I think that's just your way of skirting the issue."

"It is not!" Chuck protested. "I'm, uh, I'm experienced!"

Jill perched on the edge of the desk and turned to look at Chuck. "Then name one."

Chuck cocked his head to the side and sighed. "Would you believe Jean Harlow?"

Jill's eyes widened and her jaw dropped. "You're KIDDING."

"Less than a month before she died," Chuck replied. "I was working as a grip on _Saratoga_. She was only three years older than me, and one night, I offered to drive her home, because she had gotten fairly drunk.

"When we got back to the house she lived in with William Powell, he went off on her. He was furious that she was drunk, and even angrier that she had allowed another man to drive her home. He pretty much insisted that she should have called him."

Chuck shook his head and smiled sadly. "That was a mistake. If there was one thing that nobody was allowed to do, it was tell Jean what to do with herself. As soon as Powell started in on that particular line, she walked right out the door, and told me to take her someplace and make her feel like a woman again."

He shrugged. "The rest… well, I'm sure you can draw your own mental picture."

Jill shook her head. "Unbelievable," she said quietly. "I'm pretty sure every man in America would've given up a testicle to swap places with you for that night."

"I doubt it," Chuck sighed. "Given how soon after that she passed, I've always felt a little guilty about it all. I felt like I used her, and then, she was gone."

"That's not your fault, Chuck," Jill insisted. "Everything I've heard says that her mother refused to allow her medical care. If Louis Mayer couldn't even get her to the hospital, then what could you have done?"

"I know," Chuck said. "It's just… it's me. That's how my mind works."

Jill nodded. "I understand," she replied. "So… what's this thing you're drawing here?"

Chuck looked over at the desk, nodding appreciatively at the change of topic. "It's a pocket-sized music player," he said. "Small enough to carry around with you and still listen to music in high fidelity."

"An interesting idea," Jill said. "So… this circular thing here looks like a really tiny record, but what's the rectangle above it?"

"Not a record," Chuck replied, smiling. "That's actually a dial that would allow you to select the song, play, stop, go backward or forward – even change the volume. And the rectangle above it would actually show you what song you were listening to, who it was by, what record it was on – all that."

Jill's brow wrinkled as she took in that information. "But… you said it would be pocket-sized. Records are enormous, Chuck, and you can only fit one song on each side."

"Yes, I know," Chuck answered. "This wouldn't play 78 RPM records, though. It would be able to hold hundreds, even thousands of songs at once – the collected works of Sousa, Gershwin, Ellington, and Goodman, with room for more."

Jill looked taken aback. "How?"

Chuck sighed, and his face fell. "Yeah, that's the part I haven't figured out yet. It would have to be electronic, somehow – some sort of circuit board. I can't figure it out."

Jill set the drawing down on the desk and stood. "It's still extraordinarily impressive that you could think of something like that, Chuck," she said, approaching him. "In fact, you seem like an extraordinary individual."

And as Jill approached, Chuck Bartowski – Chuck Bartowski who had spent the night with Jean Harlow and not a few other Hollywood starlets – began to get nervous. "Uh, absolutely," he replied, his voice shaking. "But Jill – I know so little about you…"

"There'll be time to learn about me later," Jill said softly, as she reached a hand up to the side of Chuck's face. "For now, why don't you… make me feel like a woman."

* * *

Angus Muldoon stood at the end of the runway, a pair of beacon flashlights in his hands. It was the most secure way to guide aircraft in for a landing – no radios to intercept.

Unfortunately, on an overcast day such as this one, it was rather challenging. Nonetheless, he was determined to do his best.

The sound of an American-built P-39 Airacobra reached Angus' ears long before he ever saw the airplane. "That'll be our hot shot pilot, then," he muttered, lighting the beacon torches and holding them in the air.

A moment later, the stubby fighter broke through the clouds, and Angus began waving the torches back and forth. The fighter's pilot wagged his wings briefly to indicate that he saw Angus, and began his descent.

Less than a minute later, the P-39 swept over Angus' head and touched down on the runway with a puff of smoke. As Angus jogged to his Ford truck, he saw the airplane roll to a stop down near Captain Carlyle's Morris. A few cranks of the ignition later, and the Ford's mighty V-8 engine turned over.

Angus reached the group near the Morris just as the cockpit opened. Grabbing a rope ladder from the cab of his truck, Angus jumped out and jogged over to the P-39. "Ladder's comin' up, laddie!" he called, tossing one end of the ladder up to the pilot.

"Much obliged," the pilot replied, as he hooked the ladder on the edge of the cockpit and climbed down. When he reached the ground, he reached for and shook Angus' hand. "Lieutenant Cole Barker, Royal Air Force," he said.

"CPO Angus Muldoon, Royal Navy," Angus replied. "This is Captain Carylye, my commander –"

"A pleasure," Carlyle said, a mischievous grin appearing on his face as he shook Barker's hand.

"Knock it off, sir," Muldoon muttered, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. "Major John Casey, US Army, and this wee lass is Sarah Walker, from the US State Department."

"A lass indeed," Barker murmured, looking Sarah up and down appreciatively. "Not so sure about the wee part, though, Chief Muldoon."

Sarah smiled and extended her hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant Barker."

"Oh, no, the pleasure's all mine," Barker replied, taking Sarah's hand and bringing it gently to his lips. "Not often we see creatures of your beauty on military installations."

Behind Cole Barker, Angus Muldoon turned and looked at Captain Carlyle, a look on his face that seemed to say, _Can you believe this guy?_ Carlyle, on the other hand, was clearly doing his best not to laugh.

"Uh, Lieutenant Barker," Major Casey interrupted, "if you could wait until I'm not around to do things sure to induce nausea, I'd appreciate it. As it is, we're on a fairly tight timeline here. We need to get you squared away in quarters – Captain Carlyle's scheduled a full staff briefing for 1630 hours, and it's already 1600."

"Of course, of course, Major Casey," Barker said, turning to the US Army officer. "My apologies – I'd be more than happy to head to my quarters."

"If you'll come with me," Angus said shortly.

Barker turned and grinned at Sarah. "Till we meet again, Miss Walker," he proclaimed as he climbed into the truck. "Till we meet again."

As the truck pulled away, the three standing on the tarmac stared after it in silence. "He WAS kind of cute," Sarah finally said, breaking the silence.

"He's a waste of time," Casey grunted. "For God's sake, don't get your panties in a bunch because of a British accent, Walker."

"Major Casey, don't be such a cynic," Captain Carlyle said, clapping Casey on the back. "Besides, it's scientific fact – British accents tend to cause panty-bunching."

Casey shook his head. "I'm going to go bleach my brain."

* * *

"You'll be bunkin' with one o' the other Americans here," Angus explained to Barker as they walked along the corridor. "Name o' Bartowski – he's some Hollywood type who happens to be a spy or something along those lines."

"Hollywood, you say?" Barker asked. "Hmmm, I think I can get along with a man of that type."

"This is you," Angus said as they reached the quarters. "Likely it's unlocked – why don't you head on in and get to know your bunkmate. You'll be livin' together for a while here."

"Right," Barker replied, reaching for the doorknob and pushing open the door. He walked in and closed the door behind him –

And almost immediately re-emerged. "Sorry!" he called into the room as he pulled the door shut behind him.

"Uh…" The RAF pilot's face had taken on a mortified look. "Uh, perhaps we should find me a different bunk?"

"What?" Angus asked, confused. "Why would we do th-"

But before he could finish the sentence, the door opened again. Dr. Jill Roberts strode out, her hair mussed, her blouse askew, her glasses in her hand – and a wholly satisfied look on her face. "Good afternoon, gentlemen," she said as she passed them.

Angus followed Jill as she walked away, and then finally turned his attention back to Cole Barker. "Why don't we see abou' gettin' you a different room."


End file.
